


When He Wakes

by tanyart



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:29:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezio paints.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When He Wakes

Ezio is not a man of visual art. Oh, sure, he likes it well enough, loves seeing the curving archways of Florence, the trim and cut of a lady’s gown, the gleaming white statues and fanciful paintings—but it has never been his to command. He cannot put to ink or paint his own thoughts and dreams, since a canvas or sheet of paper cannot be used to hold it all. The medium is not right, but it does not bother him, even in his era of artists and visionaries, because Ezio dwells in action and doing; the pull of his body while leaping through the air, the weight he balances as he shifts the grip of his sword, or the unconscious decision to put up a fight or run away— things that are a little more difficult to capture in a picture or poem. But that, in its own way, is art too.

The easel creaks as he steadies himself, thumb smearing over the wet canvas to leave a bright mark. A man of his time cannot help but notice these beautiful, romantic creations, and, with a friend like Leonardo da Vinci, Ezio would not even attempt to deny his appreciation. Though he is not good with any of it, he still wants to try, laying out all the brushes in front of him, charcoal and paint—just to see.

Admittedly, Ezio is a little drunk tonight. His boot bumps against an empty bottle of red wine on the ground. His hand carries another, the cork still lodged between his fingers as he takes a sip. Finding it to his liking, he drops the cork, savoring the aromatic taste over his tongue before swallowing. He is not sure of the year, but it must have been a good one.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Leonardo standing in the doorway, quiet and watching. Ezio turns around so he can better decipher the puzzled look on the artist’s face, and the way he approaches Ezio, stepping gingerly around—oh, he had gotten paint on the floor, that is why. Ezio remembers.

“I see you’ve tried your hand at painting,” Leonardo says. He smiles. “How goes it?”

Ezio puts the bottle to his lips, muttering, “I’m no good at all,” before he tips it back and drinks. He is starting to feel faint and sick, but it is hard to stop, now that he is started. Leonardo should understand, though he seems to like fluttering between a dozen projects at a time.

“Have you been out? That was your work outside, on the buildings, yes?” Leonardo continues, his eyes shifting from the canvas to Ezio. His gaze wavers. Or maybe that’s just Ezio.

“Yes! You’ve seen them?” he asks, unexpectedly pleased. He momentarily forgets how the world seems to swim and tilt, and drags a paintbrush across the canvas, in whirling double loops. The paint splatters, but thankfully none of the flying droplets land on Leonardo.

“The guards will be most upset,” Leonardo replies, laughing, and with a surprising amount of firmness, he takes Ezio’s wrist. “But I think you should take a break.”

Ezio stills, the paint dripping from the tip of the brush, down to the cuffs of his sleeve and arm. Even Leonardo has his limits, kind and friendly as he is, and Ezio hopes that he hasn’t completely ruined his brush set. They were no doubt expensive, or crafted by Leonardo’s own hand. Ezio relinquishes the brush, but he lets go a little too soon; it slips through Leonardo’s fingers, clattering to the ground, next to the empty bottle of wine.

Vision blurring, Ezio cannot see Leonardo’s face just then, but he can suspect—anxious blue eyes, the knit of his brow, too many other details that he should not know— and he quickly takes another mouthful of wine. He blinks, and Leonardo sharpens back into view, the canvas, too. He is not finished, and he thinks that if he bends to retrieve the brush, he will not be getting back up. Instead, he takes his stained wrist, putting a finger to the wet paint, and writes the last of the lines.

“I did not know you knew Hebrew,” Leonardo comments, his voice near his ear. Warm, but not quite there.

“You aren’t the only one who looks at the Codex pages,” Ezio grins, ignoring the way Leonardo draws back and frowns.

“But,” he begins, and stops when Ezio’s knees suddenly buckle and he drops to the floor in a boneless heap. “Ezio!”

“I am fine!” Ezio slurs with a laugh, even though he can’t keep back the groan in his voice. His cheek is pressed to the floor, but he is too drunk and weary and numb to feel anything. The floor, though, is painted bright and shining, even if Leonardo’s boots are in the way. “God, you would not believe the time it took to paint _that._ ”

Leonardo does not answer, and Ezio realizes that he had let go of the wine bottle some time ago, during the fall. Patting a clumsy hand around, he follows the wet, lukewarm trail of wine until his fingers closes around the neck of the bottle. Leonardo kneels beside him, touching his head lightly and smoothing out the loose strands of hair. When Ezio raises the bottle back to his mouth, Leonardo’s nose wrinkles and his mouth slants in a rare, disapproving way. It almost makes Ezio choke on his drink, trying to keep himself from laughing.

“You want me to stop,” he says. Leonardo has been looking at the floor, and the walls, and the paint that covers it all. Ezio cannot tell if he understands—but he probably does.

“I think,” Leonardo says, getting to his feet, “you are going to have quite a mess to clean when you wake up, my friend.”

Ezio watches him leave, fading from sight, and it is only then that he feels another person’s hands on his body, and sees through the haze in his eyes a different face, but that is fine; he has finished all his paintings.

“But I am not going to wake up,” he replies, finally choking on the wine because he is laughing and crying so hard, and he can’t breathe at all. The painting on the floor glows harshly—a neat pyramid of letters. His soul is long gone, his body drained, he's so _tired_ —and he wishes that Lucy would stop looking at him like that. So it’s a blessing, of sorts, when he closes his eyes, and says it again with relief.

“I am not going to wake up ever again.”


End file.
